


Quiet

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crack, Family, Gen, Kid Fic, Kid!Rodney, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then again, John supposes it could just be a physical thing.  She picks up Torren all the time, why’d she want to wear out her arms with another baby?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

When the smoke finally clears it’s like no one’s breathing. There should be slow, cautious movements, the familiar call and answer to make sure everyone’s all right. Instead, there’s nothing.

No one moves.

Eventually, Ronon ghosts his way through the crowd, smooth enough that it barely ripples their unnatural stillness. He bends down, cradling the tiny remains up towards his chest and turns towards the door.

In his wake, voices begin to creak out questions, ascertain damages. Life moves again. Ronon isn’t listening, though. Every part of him is caught up by what he carries and the silent procession he leads through the halls.

“Oh,” Keller says when they arrive. “Oh, oh no.”

She works fast, at least. She’s a lot more confident than the nervous, stammering girl that hid in Carson’s shadow, a vague memory half the base can’t pin down for certain. Now, nobody calls her ‘girl’. Ronon doesn’t even have to do anything.

Although he knows he would.

When she comes out from behind the curtain her moon-round face is long with sorrow. “I’m not really sure where to start,” she says. “As far as I can tell, everything’s okay. He’s—he’s—” She glances back behind her, chewing her lower lip in a familiar nervous gesture.

The infirmary’s quiet. Dead quiet, Ronon thinks and will not say. It’s unusual, really, and for a second he thinks the entire city is watching, waiting, holding their breath the way everyone here seems to.

“Hello?” a thin, quavering little voice says. “M’ cold.” There’s a thump, then an awkward shuffling sound that reminds Ronon of old tales, remnants of those not killed by the Wraith but no longer quite alive, creeping along the edges. Then curtain parts and riot of thick, golden curls appears before a tiny snub nose and huge blue eyes. “Um.”

Time resets.

* * *

It turns out, Rodney at age three—or so Keller doubtfully hazards—is not just small for his age. He’s _miniscule_. At six months, Torren is slightly more than half Rodney’s size and weight. Teyla views him with a frown that is appearing more and more often. “Rodney, are you certain you would not like help?”

Rodney makes a noise that, in adult form, would be a huff of displeasure, thick with disdain and dismissiveness and other ‘dis’ qualities that would send people rolling their eyes and hurrying off to do better things. As a child, the noise is perfectly pathetic. “I c’n get it,” he says.

 _Lisps_. He _lisps_.

Across the room, Ronon catches Teyla’s quick glare and subsides. He doesn’t like this. Rodney shouldn’t be stretching those tiny bones of his so much, and anyway, it’s not like he can really lift what he’s trying to get.

“Uff,” Rodney says, startled, when his fingers finally slip and he lands hard on his bottom.

Ronon takes that as his cue and levers out of his seat, snatching up the data tablet and placing it on the floor in front of Rodney. His timing is perfect: big, crystalline tears dry up and the opened mouth reforms into a happy giggle.

“That’s kinda disturbing,” John says, quietly. He’s stretched out on the bed, watching darkly as Rodney begins tapping—more like patting—the datapad until it yields up the program Simpson had created with brightly colored numbers and equations. John narrowed his eyes: beginning calculus, this time. “I mean, he’s still Rodney. Right?”

Teyla sets Torren down, although her attention seems caught with Rodney. “He is a child, John. Rodney or not, he is a child.” Of all of them, she seems the most weirded out by this. Of course, for Teyla ‘weirded out’ means she won’t pick him up without a very long look at Torren, or pawning him off on someone else.

Then again, John supposes it could just be a physical thing. She picks up Torren all the time, why’d she want to wear out her arms with another baby?

Rodney is _made_ for picking up. He melts in the arms of whoever’s hold him, comfortable and warm, like a breathing, heated bed-pillow perfect for cuddling. His tumble of blonde curls is always soft, and he invariably just has to put his head down, eyes drooping while he sucks on a familiar thumb, so utterly trusting that it usually makes everyone in visible distance melt.

Every time. No matter who’s carrying him.

Although, John amends with a certain amount of smugness, by now everyone knows carrying duties are reserved for the team. Maybe Zelenka, when necessary.

Rodney laughs, suddenly, happily scrambling to his feet to push—and kick—the datapad closer to John. “Fi’shed!” he says.

Rolling onto his stomach, John sees a fairly complicated equation perfectly rendered in numbers Huggy Bear would’ve viewed with approval. The equation was one most college students couldn’t get. “Hey, good job, buddy!” he coos. “You’re gonna be back up to speed in no time!”

Rodney beams at him, stretching pudgy arms upward with just a hint of a pout. How he can pout _and_ beam is something John doesn’t examine too closely. He enjoys it a little too much. Lifting Rodney, he growls and rolls, half-smothering the boy, until they’re both free again and John can settle him on his stomach. By now, Rodney is laughing wildly.

Ronon grumbles. “You shouldn’t tease him like that.”

“Oh, lay off, Ronon, he likes it.”

“You’re gonna break him.”

“Come on, kids are hearty things. Aren’t you, pal?” He tugs Rodney’s arms, only a little alarmed the way baby skin moves a little _too_ fluidly up and down. “Er. Maybe I shouldn’t do that again.”

“I am concerned with his lack of speaking,” Teyla says, quietly. They’ve discovered that, much like with a puppy, if they keep their tone of voice light and happy then Rodney misses most of the meaning. “And his verbal comprehension. He shows remarkable aptitude towards numbers, but Rodney has always been so much more than a—a walking calculator.”

“Keller isn’t worried,” John points out. It’s a little disturbing to hear Teyla use the term ‘calculator’ with such ease. And if Rodney were an adult, John would be getting thoroughly glared at right now, instead of being drooled on as Rodney falls into yet another nap.

Ronon makes a noise that’s almost a growl. “Keller’s not us.” 

“True, but until we hear from Jeannie it doesn’t really matter, does it? This little guy’s all ours, and we’ll take care of him.” John cups his hand around the back of Rodney’s head, noting all over again how _big_ it is. Rodney seems almost elfin, so delicately put together that the tiniest jolt with shake him to pieces. “He’s happy.”

“Yes, but happy is not necessarily a good indicator.” Teyla settles Torren in his crib and then joins John on the bed, touching the tiny shirt he wears with that oh-so-familiar frown. “He should have outgrown this by now.”

“It’s only been two weeks, Teyla.”

“How many small children have you taken care of?” she shoots back.

“A couple,” John says while Ronon adds, “many.”

That makes John blink, cautiously twisting to look across the room where Ronon lurks like an unhappy spider. “Many?”

“Yeah, many. I like kids. When I wasn’t on duty, I’d always help out with the schools.”

It—makes an odd kind of sense, John decides. Ronon is absolutely smitten with Rodney, but John knows that that particular line is pretty damned long. And he’s fighting Ronon for first place.

But Ronon’s also _good_ with Rodney, maybe even better than John or Teyla. Ronon’s the one who gets Rodney to eat, who cleans up the mess he invariably makes without complaint. Ronon’s always first on the scene if Rodney’s hurt and is usually the one who patches him up, quick and efficient and with a quiet, bone-deep connection that has Rodney laughing through his tears within moments.

Rodney cries nearly silently. Oh, he wails, mouth open to show off how the red interior of his throat vibrates his displeasure—but hardly any sound actually comes _out_. He’s usually too busy hiccuping and sniffling and being—being _small_ , and breakable, and so damned fragile.

John carefully rubs a thumb at the corner of Rodney’s eye, smiling with he gets a sleepy huff and a twitch. It’s a good distraction from the memories. Rodney’s silent, horrifying tears are right up there with watching young men turn old and failing in seconds of screaming agony, as far as John’s concerned. Maybe worse. He can _kill_ Wraith. He doesn’t always know how to fix Rodney.

But Ronon does. “Sorry, buddy. You’re really good with him.”

So far, the only people who are _bad_ with shy, quiet, diminutive Rodney—such a contradiction in terms all around—is a few of the soldiers who know better than to get close to their Colonel’s favorite new toy, and Woolsey. To be fair, Woolsey knows how bad he is and makes an effort not to interact with Rodney all that much. But Woolsey has to interact with John, and Rodney’s pretty much always with him—sleeping on his shoulder or lap, curled up around his feet while he plays with whatever new game the lab has come up with, babbling in that half-voice baby-talk that everyone’s learned to listen for as he works on whatever it is he’s choosing to work on.

Whatever it is, Rodney wants it to be near John and if not John, then Ronon. Which means Woosley has to see him.

Fortunately, as far as John’s concerned, the whole thing’s hysterical.

“John.” 

A soft touch on his shoulder makes him start, then grimace. “Sorry. Dozed off again?”

Teyla’s smile is indulgent. “As did Rodney. When is the next check in with Earth?”

“Tomorrow. Carter promised she’d have information from Jeannie by then.”

Ronon is careful not to make the bed shake, but John still gets a little seasick when he stretches out on the leeside. “He’s fine. Dunno why you’re worrying so much.”

“Rodney is barely speaking, is that not cause for worry?”

Grunting, Ronon mutters, “Most people are glad about that,” and grins when John punches him, careful of the sleeping weight on his chest.

“Asshole,” he mouths.

Ronon shrugs his agreement. “He understands everything we say. You know he does, Teyla.”

“But he so rarely hears us.” There’s something odd trembling in Teyla’s voice, a kind of worry or fear that is more than just someone concerned with a friend become a terribly trusting child.

John says, “Hey. This is really bothering you. Teyla, you know he’s okay—Keller’s scanned him six ways from Neverwhere, and he’s fine. He’s healthy, developmentally where a genius should be—”

“And yet the only name he ever speaks is yours, John. We do not even have _nicknames.”_

Officially, John knows he’s out of his depth. Teyla’s really upset about something, but he can’t figure out what it is. Just that her lower lip seems fuller, suddenly, like it’s trying not to tremble in a move that has to be stolen from the kid on his chest, because John’s never once seen her— “Hey!”

“Shut up,” Ronon orders and redeposits Rodney on Teyla’s shoulder. “Don’t wake him up.”

Nodding, Teyla fits her hand, small and dark and powerful enough to break a small child like Rodney in two, around Rodney’s back and snugs him closer to her. She still looks—not okay. Not even a little bit. But she sighs and rests her head against curls so springy that she’s probably not even touching Rodney’s skull, and breathes in deeply.

“We got him,” John says.

“He’s fine,” Ronon adds, and soon all four of them are piled on each other, lulled to sleep by the soft, rhythmic breathing of a child.

**Author's Note:**

> No, there's no more of this. Sorry!


End file.
